


Araneae Sanguine

by CrossroadProphet



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossroadProphet/pseuds/CrossroadProphet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no trick to escaping your past. You merely keep running and hope it never catches up. Somewhere along the way, Sherlock Holmes forgot to keep running.</p><p> <i>If Jim was waging war on magic, he was going to pick off the weakest links first. The loners, the trusting muggle supporters, they would be the easiest to remove and the first to go.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>So long before John Watson was strapped with explosives, Sebastian had stepped back into the wizarding world for just a short time. Before anyone had any idea about what was to come, before his name was leaked to Mycroft and he was as wanted as Black, he started to put together a list.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <b>Set in the world of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/721634">Docendo Discimus</a></b></p><p>INDEFINITELY UNFINISHED.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jen (ConsultingWriters)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Docendo Discimus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/721634) by [Jen (ConsultingWriters)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen). 



> I really do have a Moriarty problem. I couldn't just leave well enough alone and enjoy Docendo Discimus. I had to think about how my favorite little psychopath spirit animal fit into all of this.
> 
> Jen, I only hope to do your creation justice.

Squib. Freak. These words hummed in the background of Sherlock’s existence since he first turned away the owl from Hogwarts. His family, well, his brothers had been the only ones to understand and accept him. Mycroft orchestrated things as he did best, and Q  put up with his strange habits well enough, even if Sherlock’s little move had pushed Q to abandoning the family title.

Mummy wasn’t too happy about that, but Mummy wasn’t usually happy with anyone but Mycroft these days. He was a proper wizard. He didn’t abandon the family name. He was with the Ministry. Not that Sherlock ever cared what Mummy thought.

Sherlock lived for numbers, logic, and science. They made his brain process faster, his heart beat quicken; the thrill of the chase and success was something no amount of wand waving and incantations could hope to duplicate. Potions, perhaps he would have liked that realm of magic, but that too was science, the simple measure of an ingredient's ingrain magical properties and how it would react in a chemical solution with the right assistance from a wizard.

But of course, Sherlock was a being of magic. Try as he might, there would always be a little bit of magic in his world view. He could live with muggles all he wanted, sweet Mrs. Hudson who put up with him downstairs, the Yarders who relied on him despite how they hated it so, and John, his army doctor and adrenaline junkie flatmate, all of them perfectly mundane, but he wasn’t. He could never see the world how they saw it.

Since he was eleven the magic had truly been with him. Mycroft had helped to teach him to reign it in, but without a wand and without studies, the force of magic inside him was explosive at best. The Ministry feared him, an untrained wizard of the Holmes pedigree was unheard of. One false move, a split second of improper control and Sherlock could reveal himself to the muggles in a way even the Ministry would have a hard time cleaning up.

By now, he was used to it, the constant thrum of magic under his skin, an itch he could never scratch. In his younger years though, the magic crawled at his skin in search of release. It wasn’t right for a wizard to avoid magic. So, Sherlock once again turned to muggle means to escape a magical problem.

Drugs had helped. The needle in his vein and the rush of a poison that surely even St. Mungo’s would have a hard time clearing him of was all he needed to make it stop. The burning faded and in its place came a clarity Sherlock had only imagined grasping at. A quick fix here to calm himself soon became an addiction and he nearly dropped off Mycroft’s radar entirely to find new dealers in London’s underground who hadn’t yet been obliviated by Big Brother.

It was the Detective Inspector who found him, saw the brilliance of something beyond the ordinary in Sherlock’s hazy eyes and got him cleaned up. Not to a muggle hospital, no, Mycroft intervened before that happened, but Lestrade kept tabs on Sherlock from then on out. Helped to get him on his feet, got his assistance on a few cases that involved the criminals of Sherlock’s past and watched as Sherlock found himself a new addiction.

The crime scenes. The deductions. The chase. Somehow it helped to lessen the burning in his skin. He claimed he simply grew out of the phase, his hormones and magic had settled down at last. His brothers seemed to have other ideas, but their shared glances were of no concern to Sherlock. He had found a way to live without magic in his life.

Freak and squib continued to thrum in the background of his existence, but they were accompanied by new titles as well. Genius, often with a side of contempt, but that was expected. Consulting Detective, a name of his own design. Friend, the last and most surprising of them all.

John Watson had quickly become a permanent fixture in his life. The man was about as muggle as they came. An army man, honorably discharged, psychosomatic limp to accompany the bullet in his shoulder, regular tea drinker, wearer of the most frightfully dull jumpers, and somehow he was amazed by Sherlock Holmes, so far from ordinary muggle that even muggle sympathizers in the wizarding world thought him a nutter.

It was an odd match to be sure. Sherlock occasionally made the man’s life hell with his constant experiments and occasional lack of common courtesies (not that he didn’t know the muggle way by now, simply that he didn’t care enough to act on them), but John Watson had absolutely no idea he was living with a not-wizard.

And Sherlock was perfectly fine with keeping it that way. He kept communications with his brothers, but his owl was a smart bird. Darwin only ever arrived through his bedroom window and didn’t bother 221B if the windows were shuttered. The bird was just as aloof as his owner and Sherlock would go weeks without seeing the creature before it showed up with a message or demanding a treat. Darwin was the only connection he maintained with his old world, muggles were his world now, other than his brothers. Mycroft was so well immersed in muggle culture he practically ran both their government and the Ministry, so he was no problem. And Sherlock had spent a fair bit of time schooling Q in how to pass for a normal, if not eccentric, muggle. There was nothing left in Sherlock’s life that could possibly tip off anyone that things were not as they appeared with the young genius.

Nothing at all except Sherlock Holmes himself.

His picture was spread out across the length of the wall, dozens of shots and news clippings all pinned and posted in organized chaos. Sherlock walking across the street. Sherlock hailing a cab. Sherlock at a news conference. Sherlock hiding away behind that silly little deerstalker hat he’d picked up. In few pictures did he smile, and when he did it was forced. For most pictures Sherlock Holmes had been unaware any camera had been on him at all.

At the center of the web was one picture unlike any of the others. This one featured a young Sherlock Holmes rolling his eyes at the camera. Every now and then he gave a small, tight smile before the look of utter insufferable boredom appeared on his face again.

This picture was the crown jewel of the collection. Thin fingers traced over it as though the touch of human hands might be enough to brush aside young Sherlock’s unruly hair to offer a better look at those brilliant eyes. “Tiger,” the man purred, “Tell me again about Sherlock Holmes?”

The soldier at his side nodded, the story of the infamous muggle lover burned into his tongue by now. “Sure, boss.”


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the story begins, folks. Last chapter was pretty much to catch anyone who hasn't read Jen's fic up to speed on Sherlock, but really, everyone should go read her fic. This is where my story starts. A little back story heavy again, but just to get the ball rolling. Enjoy!

When Sebastian Moran was just eleven years old a strange little man in a travelling cloak knocked at his door. He introduced himself as Filius Flitwick, professor of Charms and head of Ravenclaw house at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and handed Sebastian a letter.

That was the moment Sebastian’s life changed. He went from being the son of a single, widowed mother in Hastings to being the wizard son of a single, widowed, muggle mother in Hastings.

Filius had been an excitable little man on a mission to deliver Sebastian’s Hogwarts letter. All muggleborn children received their letters from members of the staff at the school, he’d said, so that they could help ease the parents and child into the idea of magic. An owl at their window would have just seemed silly otherwise.

To prove his story, Filius had made the only good china Sebastian’s mother had dance straight out of their cabinet and around the kitchen. It was forbidden to show magic to muggles, he’d said to Sebastian, but parents of wizards were the exception to the rule within reason.

After a brief instance of mild panic thinking she’d let a crazy man in her house and near her son, Ms. Moran took to the idea of magic instantly. Filius was quite the charmer and won over her affections. Wasn’t it wonderful? Her son was special, a wizard!

And like all eleven year old boys suddenly told he was a wizard, Sebastian was amazed. He wanted a wand, and he wanted to turn that little prat down the road into a frog for throwing stones at the neighbor’s cats all the time. Filius merely laughed and reached up to put his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder to ground his whirlwind dreams. “Magic should never be abused,” he told him, “And never used on muggles, Merlin knows we’ve seen enough dark wizards like that to last us all a very long time. But I can help you about a wand…”

With help from the Hogwarts professor, the Morans were off to Diagon Alley to experience the wizarding world, change some muggle money into wizarding gold, and get Sebastian all that he needed for school. Sebastian decided he wanted a broom, but that would have to wait until he was a bit older, Filius had said. They got his robes, his books, class supplies, a few little treats with a couple of spare knuts, and of course, the wand.

Ollivander had been a strange character. So happy to meet Sebastian’s mother and assure her that her son would have the best possible wand in his hands by time he left. After a few curious wizard-to-muggle questions and having some strange measuring tape whir around his head, Sebastain was handed three wands. The first made him feel like a fool with a stick. The second accidently blew up a glass case that Filius quickly repaired on his behalf. The third was a match.

“Curious,” Olivander said as he took the wand back to wrap it up in its box for purchase. “Eleven and three quarters inches, cedar casing, dragon heartstring core, reasonably supple. A good wand, Mr. Moran. We can expect great things from you. Come by my shop in a few years time and I’m sure you’ll have a number of stories to tell.”

On September 1st, Sebastian found himself on the Hogwarts Express surrounded by dozens of other children and the symphony of hooting owls and yowling cats as their cages were loaded on board the scarlet train. Some of the students were just as lost as he was, and others were happily greeting school friends. Some were still in muggle clothes like him and others had already changed into their wizarding robes, flashing the colors of their houses with pride. Filius had told him all about the houses, and how at the first feast of the new year, he’d be placed in a house that would become his home and family for the rest of his time at Hogwarts.

That night, dressed in his black robes, the Sorting Hat sat on his head, rummaging through all his thoughts, murmuring in his ear. “Cunning yes… and loyal too… not the sharpest mind I’ve seen, but strength, yes, yes that will do. GRYFFINDOR!”

The scarlet clad table erupted into a cheer for their newest member and Sebastian nearly tripped on his way to join them, falling into his seat at the long table with a smile he couldn’t contain.

 

xx

 

As Sebastian moved through the years of Hogwarts, he became a beater on the house team, found a talent in Defense Against the Dark Arts and a special love of Transfiguration, especially since the witch who taught the class had a special favoritism for her Quidditch players who could cast with any level of success. He started a semi-legal dueling club in his fourth year and got it banned in his fifth when a few Slytherin members complained of curses they couldn’t block. He started it up again under the noses of the professors and it continued up until he left the school. He was never top of his class, but he never gave the professors more reasons to deduct house points other than for his ‘muggle fighting streak’ that usually ended with a Slytherin and a broken nose after Quiddith matches.

It was in his fifth year that he first heard about Sherlock Holmes. Just after the Sorting, the whole Hall began to break out into whispers that started with the purebloods and left the newly sorted first years confused and in their own little worlds.

Sherlock Holmes, from the great Holmes family, hadn’t come to Hogwarts. He was known in a number of the wizarding family circles because of his bloodline and he was just about of age for Hogwarts. So where was he? The rumors started like wildfire.

“I heard he didn’t take his letter.”

“A squib in the Holmes line.”

“Shame, his whole family must be so embarrassed.”

“I don’t envy them now, not for all the gold in their bank.”

One of the seventh year girls, Victoria Henning, elbowed Sebastian in the side at the table. “What do you think about this Holmes fellow?”

“Has to be a squib, right?” he’d shrugged, swishing around the pumpkin juice in his goblet. “Who in their right mind would refuse to come here?”

“Especially from a family like that one,” another boy piped up.

“Do you remember Mycroft, Sebastian?”

“Vaguely.”

“Right, he was a Slytherin a couple years back. Either way, not much older than us,” Victoria said. “He’s practically running three departments in the Ministry right now, according to me mum. Holmes. Nobody stops them, they can do just about anything .”

“Even be a squib.” Sebastian laughed with table at that and enjoyed the rest of the feast, thinking that was the end of it.

But for the rest of term, Sherlock’s absence in Hogwarts was a thing of talk and speculation amongst the students. Professors started docking points from students who wouldn’t drop the topic by Christmas. He didn’t see the whole fuss over the matter until after break when one of the Slytherin girls came back with gossip that apparently, Sherlock just didn’t want to be a wizard.

“Auntie Augustus knows his mummy,” she said to all that would listen in the corridors between classes. “She’s been in a fit since Sherlock turned away his owl. Gone off to live with his brother in London, he has, even attending muggle academies like one of them.”

And just like that the gossip was back; even first year muggleborns thought he had to be some kind of a nutter. It was all the professors could do that first week back to keep the students focused on their work.

“I’m not buying,” said James, Sebastian’s fellow beater during one of their training sessions. “Kid has to be a squib.”

He glanced over at the upperclassman and shrugged. “Who knows?”

“You think he’d really choose to be a muggle?”

“Some muggles choose to be wizards.”

“That’s different, mate. You didn’t choose it; you just accepted that’s what you are.”

“Maybe it’s like that.”

“Boys! Want to maybe join the team for practice or are you going to be a couple of gossiping first years? Because if that’s the case you can hand your brooms over now,” their captain threatened, quaffle under her arm as she flew past.

“Oi, we’re coming. Keep your panties on, Henning,” Sebastian shouted before he gave James another shrug and flew off across the pitch, thinking once again, that was the end of it.

It was by complete coincidence that the memory of Sherlock Holmes resurfaced in Sebastian’s mind years later under very different circumstances. 

He’d been polishing his Dragunov in the corner of Jim Moriarty’s office when the man had mentioned the Consulting Detective. He’d been completely enamored in his computer for days now, occasionally snapping at Sebastian to get the paper or kill someone, before even mentioning what kept him so focused. Sebastian had learned early on to just not ask, eventually he would find out if Jim wanted him to know.

“Well I’ll be damned. Someone put a bullet in our cabbie’s head and it wasn’t us.”

“Is that my cue?” Sebastian asked, glancing up from the gun. “Because I’ll need more than that, boss.”

“Not this time, tiger. This seems like it might get interesting,” Jim leaned forward, eyes scanning the screen at a rate Sebastian couldn’t even process before he quickly shut the computer and focused that intensity on the wizard in his employ. “Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

Sebastian slowly put his gun down, brow crinkled in confusion. “I have, but why have you?”

Jim tilted his head. “And what does that mean, Moran?”

“Holmes, well, he’s like me, boss.”

There it was, that spark in Jim’s eyes that usually spelled destruction. “Go on.”

“Well, Holmes, he’s supposed to be a wizard…”

And it was the same story every time since.

It had gotten to a point where his boss was quick to call Sebastian out if something was off. Sebastian Moran, muggleborn wizard, had never actually met Sherlock Holmes, self made squib. He only knew the stories. He knew gossip and names of witches and wizards who claimed to know Sherlock’s story, but he doubted half of what he knew was even true.

It was only when Jim commissioned him to find out more about Sherlock Holmes, his family, his associates, his everything, did Sebastian get the full story, or what wasn’t blocked by the Ministry anyway. It was interesting to be sure, to settle some childhood curiosities. Hadn’t been easy, not by a long shot, but Jim rarely gave him anything that could be defined as simple. That’s what the underlings were for, Jim always said. His right hand, his tiger, deserved something more challenging.

Now Jim stood before a web of information at his finger tips, magical and muggle blending together. Sebastian had never seen his boss sane before, but there was a manic edge to him now. Jim walked the line of glee and fury like it was his job, a smile on his face and fiend fire in his eyes. He controlled criminal organizations that spanned to countries Sebastian had scarcely heard of, he could have just about anything he wanted and when with the push of a button or pull of a trigger, but right now the man’s brilliance was all focused on one single thing: Sherlock Holmes.

There were days he was giddy, practically dancing through the flat to the tune of the latest news on the detective. And then there were other days where a cross word was likely to get Sebastian a bullet in his arm (just the left, Jim still needed him to shoot) because Jim had read the next morning’s paper and it left out some miniscule detail to a case that only Sherlock would understand.

“It’s all important,” he always said. “I don’t do something unintentional, Sebastian, what do you mistake me for? Sherlock will see the connection, if he’s half as good as I am he’ll put it together.” And with a few keystrokes on his iPhone, Jim would have the story that upset him rewritten and fixed in time for printing.

That was just how Jim worked. Crazed rage one moment, content and purring over his latest trick the next. Sebastian had gotten used to it. What was a psychopath to deal with when he’d become a wizard over night?

It was late into the night when Jim stood in his doorway, nothing but a shadow as the light of the hall blinded the barely awake sniper. “Christ boss, what have I said about doing that?” Moran muttered, wand in hand before he set it down again. They had started sharing a flat for convenience just a week after Sebastian had been hired. Jim wanted his right hand on hand at any hour, and nothing, he was sure, would get past his tiger. Safest security system in the world, he said, though Jim had at least nine others set in place.

“It’s starting.”

Moran sighed and threw his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, scrubbing at his face. “At four thirty in the bloody morning?”

The shadow of his employer stepped into his room and he could see the manic grin in place as Jim approached. “Nap time is over, tiger,” he chided, leaning into Sebastian’s personal space like he owned it and curling his fingers around the hilt of Sebastian’s wand. “You can sleep when I win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, do comment with any little questions or what have you! I'd love to know what you guys think and what questions you have buzzing about in your heads. I know there are a lot unanswered questions right now, but I have to pull you back somehow, right?
> 
> Also, I did some decent amount of Pottermore research before giving Moran his wand ;]  
> For those curious, my own wand is 13 inches, Spruce, Dragon Heartsting, Surprisingly Swishy.  
> PS. I'm a Slytherin x3


	3. Chapter Two

There was nothing simple about James Moriarty. The guy had never been known to use the word. Things were not simple, they were efficient. Things were not easy, because if they were they would be dull and god forbid anything Jim did was less than magnificent.

And Sebastian knew his part.

The kidnapping, the bombs, they were all so easy. He’d done worse in the war. Strapping that old woman with explosives had been a bit harder, she reminded him a bit of his mum, but Sebastian turned a blind eye to her tears and whistled to drown out her begging. It was easy. It was part of the job. Jim wanted to play a game, and someone had to put the pieces in place.

Like hell Jim would do it himself. The dirtiest his hands ever got was pushing a button somewhere, or when he twisted the knives that Sebastian embedded first. But this one, this game seemed to be different than the rest.

While Sebastian was scoping out the next target, Jim was off playing Jim from IT. Watching his boss bounce about the apartment and giggling on the phone with that forensics chick—that had been something. Moriarty was a lot of things, wore a lot of masks to hide all those nasty things he was, but a doting gay boyfriend was by far the scariest Sebastian had seen to date.

Sebastian downed the last of his beer and shook his head to clear himself of the image.

“Rough day?” asked the man beside him at the bar.

“You could say that,” Sebastian said, barely sparing a glance at the blonde. “My roommate is driving me up a wall lately. Manic little fuck that he is.”

“Oh. Yours too? We could start a club,” the man laughed. “Bet you mine’s worse.”

“I’d take that bet.” Sebastian angled himself towards the other man, a crooked smile on his face. “Got to warn you, mine’s a bit of a freak show.”

The blonde looked over, cast a glance over Sebastian, and turned back to his drink. “Yours store body parts in the microwave?”

“No.”

“I win.”

“He prefers the freezer, less of a smell there.”

They shared a brief glance, before they both broke out into a fit of laughter at the end of the bar.

“You see now,” the blonde said once he caught his breath, “I think that means I win.”

“How do you figure?” Sebastian asked, grinning.

“At least yours cares if the flat smells like a crime scene.”

Sebastian considered it a moment before bowing his head in defeat. “Guess that makes you the president of our little club?”

He laughed. “Guess so. Though as a founder, I’d say yours is a tough act to beat.”

“That means a lot coming from you, Doctor.”

Before John could even look back at Sebastian to get a second read on the man, the tell tale click of a safety being lifted could be heard in the silence between them. John’s face set in a grim line as he caught a glimpse of the gun aimed in his direction. “I take it back,” he said tersely. “You win.”

“Jim’s a nutter, but I don’t want the position bad enough to kill. He has a message though, for Sherlock.”

“Hasn’t he sent enough bloody messages?”

“You’re the last one.”

John stared at the line of bottles on the shelf behind the bar. He took a deep breath and met his own gaze in the mirrors there. “You’re going to kill me? That the message then? Or is there some riddle he needs to solve to save my life?”

“Nothing like that, that’s dull,” he said, Jim’s words echoing in his ears. “This can be easy. There’s a car outside that will pull up when I tell it to. You’re going to get in, and you’re not going to cause any trouble. No texting Sherlock for help. No trying to fight me off or I’ll make sure that limp of yours is more than an act.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” the soldier ground out, finally looking into Sebastian’s eyes. The sight there was a familiar one. How many of his men had that same look out in the desert? When death greeted you at every turn? It was one he wore himself more than once.

“No, didn’t think you would be. But you’re a good man, Dr. Watson. And you wouldn’t let civilians get hurt, would you?” He whistled just loud enough for it carry through the afternoon pub chatter. On cue, at least six men that John could see glanced over at Sebastian before reaching into various bags and briefcases. John tensed and sat up straighter. “That’s what I thought.”

Sebastian stood and put his gun to John’s side, bodily blocking the rest of the pub from his threats. “Car’s waiting, Doctor.”

The car that picked up John once he stepped outside was armed with three of Sebastian’s best men, the three most likely to cover a delicate mission if Sebastian was away on other orders. They wouldn’t be overtaken by a crippled veteran. They would follow orders and drive in circles and down back alleys to make sure John Watson was lost in his very own back yard.

Sebastian waited for them to drive off and slipped the gun back into his waistband. He watched the others in the pub get their acts together and slowly drift back to the shadows they’d been called from and made his way out to his bike.

The bike had been a gift from the boss, a little welcome into the company and back to London after so long abroad. It was sleek and fast and the way he flew through London traffic brought him back to days of flying through the Forbidden Forest with James and others; it was easy to do something stupid on either field, but half the fun came from coming out alive.

The bike came to life with a tiger’s roar and Sebastian tore off down the street, headed straight to the warehouse John was being taken to. As usual, he didn’t catch a single red light on the way. He had a certain luck with traffic like that.

 

xx

 

Waiting for Sherlock’s message had been nothing short of painful for the sniper. In one room, John Watson was cuffed to a chair under armed guard, in the other Jim paced around like a caged animal. And it was Sebastian’s job to keep them both from doing something stupid or, in Jim’s case, murderous.

“Don’t break the doctor yet, I want to see Sherlock squirm when everything he knows is a lie.”

“Maybe you can tell me now what the bloody hell is going on here?”

“Is he really this dull? Shouldn’t he have got the joke by now? I thought you said he was special, Moran.”

“I’m not going to be some pawn in this little pissing match.”

“But that’s exactly what you’re going to be, John,” Jim hissed when he finally came in to see all the fuss. “Sherlock thinks you’re something special, but you’re just like all the rest aren’t you?”

Sebastian was sitting with the explosives in the corner, casually rigging them up. He glanced once at his boss before looking back down at what his hands were doing.

“You’re ordinary. Boring. A soldier who heals instead of pulling a trigger, how painfully good,” he hissed. Jim grasped at John’s hair and forced his head back, his voice barely more than a growl when he said, “You’re nothing. Nothing but a dog who learned a few tricks on the battlefield. Not nearly enough to keep Sherlock from getting bored.”

John grit his teeth and Sebastian glanced up to see the doctor’s short nails digging painfully into his palm as he pulled on the zip-ties.

Jim saw it too. He smiled, and the predatory growl became childish mocking. “He doesn’t need you, you know. You’re a distraction until something better comes along, something like me. See, I know things that you don’t know.” He laughed and all but threw John back when he let go of him. “And honey, I can keep him busy for ages just trying to figure me out.”

“Go to hell.”

“Already there.” Jim turned back towards the door and smiled at the sniper in the corner. “Sebby, why don’t you set the doctor up with some hellfire for us?” He gave a little wave of his hand and disappeared back to his pacing.

A little while later, as Sebastian was fitting the explosives to John, the familiar tune of bad disco filled the empty warehouse, shortly followed by Moriarty’s laughter. “Showtime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're cooking with fire~ Hellfire if we're in Jim's kitchen.  
> Back story for the sake of back story is over, but don't worry. You'll be getting plenty more insight on our favorite sniper and consulting criminal. We're just getting started.
> 
> Thank you for reading! The next update should be sooner, already started writing x3


	4. Chapter Three

The pool was apparently significant somehow. There was a murder Jim had committed when he was back in school, and apparently young Sherlock had caught whiff of it. By Sebastian’s math, which was passing at best, Sherlock had to have been a kid, before he even turned down Hogwarts, visiting Mycroft in London most likely. To think, the two geniuses had been skirting around each other for so long, barely brushing elbows as they passed, and were finally coming face to face now.

Well, it made Jim’s mood make a little more sense. He’d been so happy when Sherlock put the pieces together and chose this place to meet. Secluded and significant, two of Jim’s favorite Ss. Sebastian could still hear Jim laughing, “Oh you were right, tiger. He is something.”

He settled down in the darkness of the upper gallery, never making a sound for all that he shifted and moved. His rifle was set up, lasers off, and sights set on the detective who had just walked in. He spoke quietly into the mic at his throat and gave out orders to the other snipers Jim had set around the pool. This was it, and he’d be damned if anyone messed up now.

From the looks of it, as the detective waved the USB around, the man liked to hear himself talk almost as much as Jim did. Figures. It wasn’t until John walked in did Sebastian begin to focus on what was being said.

“Evening,” the doctor said, “This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

“John. What the hell—?”

“Bet you never saw this coming.”

The doctor began to pull back the jacket at Jim’s orders and Sebastian cued the sniper on John to make himself known.

“What … would you like me … to make him say … next?”

It was always a game. He could imagine how Jim saw it. Everyone just puppets on strings that he could pull. Nothing made Sebastian any different than John or Sherlock, not in Jim’s eyes. He had his gifts, but Jim knew just how to pluck his strings all the same.

When the door at the back of the pool opened, and Jim’s mocking voice echoed over the still water, Sebastian refocused and proceeded to watch Sherlock through the sights only. One false move, and whether Jim approved or not, he would take Sherlock down. Maybe just an arm, but protecting the boss was more important than letting him have his fun.

He let Sherlock pull the gun only because his finger’s faster and he knew it.

The criminal and the detective. It was funny how they worked. Their banter, Jim’s little jabs. They were like goddamn children who were given explosives and gunmen. He watched as Jim laughed and gasped, pulling from his great big bag of masks at every turn. If he showed even a fraction of his true face to Sherlock yet, Sebastian hadn’t caught it.

“I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on out there in the big bad world. I’m a specialist, you see,” and sudden ‘realization’ washed over his face, “like you!” Jim laughed, “Just like you.”

“Consulting criminal,” Sherlock murmured, just loud enough for the sniper to catch it, “Brilliant…”

“Isn’t it?” he agreed, before his tone dropped to something more sinister once again. “But there’s more, Sherly. Have you figured out the rest?”

Jim walked back over to John and leaned in as if sharing a secret, “He’s just not getting it. Won’t say a word to admit it, but look at him. Are those the eyes of a man who knows it all?” He tsk’d at them both and looked back to Sherlock. “Well? Want to prove me wrong? I know you do so love doing that.”

Sherlock held the flash drive out. “Take it.”

“Huh? Oh! That! The missile plans.” He strode forward, grabbed it from Sherlock’s outstretched hands, kissed it once, and flashed Sherlock a wicked grin. “Boring~! I could have got them anywhere,” he said as he carelessly threw the USB into the pool.

Sebastian cursed into the mic as John Watson chose that moment to move and latch onto Jim, holding him close to the explosives he wore. Brave man, he thought, foolishly stupid and Sebastian was going to kill him, but brave man.

“Sherlock, run!”

“Good,” Jim laughed. “Very good.”

“If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.”

Personally, Sebastian was a little insulted by that. He could easily make the shot, get Watson in the skull and do nothing more than ruin Jim’s Westwood. Jim would live, probably shoot Sebastian for making a mess, but John’s death would be in vain. And wouldn’t that make the detective’s blood just boil?

“Isn’t he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then, people do get so sentimental about their pets. They’re so touchingly loyal, but next time you really should consider getting one with claws.”

Jim was pulled closer to the doctor, as if to prove what claws he had. Jim scowled at that. Sebastian’s finger rested over the switch, he could easily show their own hand, let them know John wasn’t the only one with a sniper on him. But Jim’s hand moved, the scowl replaced with a smirk, and he knew what was coming next. He let his finger still.

Sebastian watched as Jim pointed his wand at the John’s throat, prodding the tip of it just under his chin. “Down, boy.”

The absurdity of the moment for a muggle like John was enough to make the doctor briefly forget the gravity of the situation. “A stick? You have a sniper and a bomb on me, but the stick is going to make me change my mind? You’re mad.”

“Indeed.”

“Do as he says, John.” Sherlock stood stiffly, the hand around the gun tighter. No doubt everything he knew of Jim was being rewritten in that brain of his, trying to match up the data and coming to the conclusion that he was definitely missing something, because the criminal he was facing could not conceivably be a wizard.

“Sherlock—”

“John.”

Jim half heartedly brushed himself off when John let go and raised his hands in surrender. “Well trained, too, that’s good.”

Sherlock glanced at John for a moment before his eyes were trained on Jim with his full attention. “Let me guess,” he said, hastily putting pieces where they didn’t belong. “Following the Dark Lord wasn’t enough—you wanted to try your own hand at things. Why trust in someone who’s been gone for so long when you can do it better? Make the muggles fall apart from inside their own infrastructure and attack at their weakest points. Slytherin in school, obviously, ambitious from the start, never cared to play by school rules, but your family had the money to make it all disappear with one letter to the old caretaker to turn a blind eye.”

Jim smiled, impressed if Sebastian were to gauge by the tone of that little half-laugh of his, and shook his head, “Wow. See, they all told me you were quick,” he said, “But that…” he casually pointed the wand at Sherlock, “that was so absolutely  ** _wrong_**.” The smile morphed into pity before settling into a smirk. He tapped the wand idly against the side of his head. “You’re not thinking, not even close. As though I would be so simple. Not like you’re brother, Sherlock. Not even close.”

Through the sights of his rifle, Sebastian had a front row seat to see how Sherlock’s face twitched. How hard must it be to accept he was wrong? He chuckled under his breath. “Not so gifted now, are you Holmes?”

“I thought, I really did, I thought you might be able to figure it out.”

“Then tell me,” Sherlock retorted, “you do so love to prove me wrong.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Jim asked, disgust evident. “There’s a reason to all of this, Sherlock.”

“You’re bored.”

“So are you.”

“Have you two had enough, yet? I’m sure you could have a lovely chat over dinner somewhere.”

“John.”

“Sherlock, this is absurd, it’s—”

Jim spun around and flicked his wrist, shooting angry green sparks and smoke out the end of it. “That’s enough, Dr. Watson.”

John stared, stepping back again, “What the bloody hell is that thing?”

Sherlock stood frozen, eyes glued to the lingering sparks before they fizzled out. Sebastian could just read his lips, that little “oh…” as pieces started to find their match.

Sebastian pressed a button at his mic and changed channels. “Boss,” he said in Jim’s ear alone. “He’s catching on.”

Jim’s head whipped back again, dark eyes flickering over Sherlock. His lip twitched before he settled into a smile. “As I said. You and I are just alike. Two sides of the same coin and all that.” He ran his fingers over the wand, sliding them over the polished wood, examining it carefully under his touch. “D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock?”

“Oh, let me guess: I get killed.”

“Kill you?” He wrinkled his nose. “No, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m going to kill you anyway. I don’t want to rush it though. I’m saving it up for something special. No, no, no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you like the witch you are. I’ll make you build your pyre and I’ll be the one to light it up. I will  _burn_  you.”

“Haven’t we moved beyond witch hunts, Jim?”

 “As long as someone is there to cry witch, people never really do move past those sort of things.” Jim pulled his voice, low and undoubtedly American. “’My neighbor’s a witch.’ ‘My employer is a communist.’ ‘My landlord is a terrorist.’” He rolled his eyes and returned to the bored Irish drawl. “People never change, but that makes them so easy to use.”

“What if I was to shoot you—right now?” Sherlock asked, deadly calm as he pointed the pistol at Jim’s head.

“Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face,” he said, face twisted into the comical expression of shock before he grinned. “’Cause I’d be surprised, Sherlock; really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed that you forgot I had this,” he said as his fingers fluttered against the cedar wand.

Sherlock’s lip turned up into a smile, he held the gun more confidently.

Sebastian cursed and brought the mic closer to his lips. “Boss, you hear me?” There was the barest of taps from Jim’s right hand against his leg. “Expelliarmus. On my count, say it with me and flick your wrist swiftly like I showed you. Disarm, that’s the goal. Focus on it.” He watched Jim’s hand tap at his leg again. Sebastian inhaled deeply, evening his breath like he would if he were taking a shot. “Three. Two. One—”

“Expelliarmus!”

Jim’s wand spit red sparks and lightning as Sherlock’s gun went splashing into the pool at his side. There was a brief, pure grin on Jim’s face before his eyes met Sherlock’s. “Seems like you’re the one who gets to be surprised this time, Sherly.”

He turned his back on Sherlock and made his way back to the door, winking at the baffled John Watson as he walked by. “Why don’t you ask him about that one, Johnny? Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock stepped closer to John, watching Jim until he was out of sight entirely. “Catch you later…” he said slowly.

“No you won’t~!” Jim sung from down the hall.

The radio crackled in Sebastian’s ear as Jim turned on his own mic once more. “Very good, tiger, very good. Shut it down. We’re done here.”

Sebastian radio’d his confirmation and changed channels once again, giving the orders to dismantle and disappear. Once the laser was off of John, Sebastian watched Sherlock rush over to John’s side, bony fingers fumbling with the clasps and snaps Sebastian had secured to the coat.

He could have been packed and gone in under a minute, but something about the detective and his muggle intrigued Sebastian. Magic could have solved half of Sherlock’s problems right now, but instead the man was fumbling and fidgeting once he managed to disrobe John and get the bomb as far away from them as possible.

John all but collapsed once it was off him. Sherlock paced to and from John, looking into the pool where his gun lay. “Are you okay?” he finally asked, turning back on John.

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine. Fine.”

“That, er, thing that... that you did—that you offered to do… That was good.”

“I’m glad no one saw that. You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

That got Sherlock to still for a heartbeat and smile. “People do little else,” he said as John laughed, finally managing to get his bearings again and stand.

“Sherlock?”

The detective made a sound of acknowledgement, though his eyes were everywhere but on John; the doors, the dark galleries, the two little black pieces of weaponry beneath the waters.

“What was that thing he had? What did he do to your hand?”

Sherlock looked down, and for the first time, Sebastian looked as well. Where Sherlock had held the gun, an angry red burn marred the pale skin. He clenched it and grimaced, waving his good hand at John. “It’s nothing. We’ll discuss it later, John.”

“Like bloody hell—”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to leave before he comes back and changes his mind about prolonging my death. We can discuss this later.”

So Watson really had no idea about the man he lived with. They’d suspected as much, but it was interesting to see just how deeply under muggle cover Sherlock had hid himself. He grabbed the duffle bag and slung it over his shoulder. Moriarty would have the car still waiting for him if he hadn’t already gotten irritated with Sebastian’s delay.

One last glance and Sherlock and John were gone, presumably running off to Mycroft or, rather more likely, to hail a cab and tell Mycroft to run off to them knowing Sherlock. He pulled at his cell phone once it started buzzing in his pocket and chuckled to himself before he slipped it back in place.

Five seconds or you walk.  
JMx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm really bad with having a steady posting schedule. I was going to wait, but I'm too eager. If people want to see a more regular posting, or want me to just post as I finish, you should say so in the comments when you stroke my ego <3 Thank you for reading, my darlings~!
> 
> Chapters can now be found on Tumblr for reblogging purposes. #araneae sanguine or under the crossroadprophet url


	5. Chapter Four

Sherlock was tapping away on his phone before the door of 221B had even properly locked behind them.

Problem. Come at once.  
-SH

John had slumped into his chair the moment he was through the door. The entire ride from the pool to the flat had been in silence and John had no interest in breaking it by the looks of it. He’d stopped shaking by time they got inside, so that made at least one of them.

And why are you calling me?  
-MH

“John?” Sherlock called as he began to tap away once again at his keys. “Why don’t you take a shower?”

Because it’s your kind of problem.  
-SH

John looked over at him, more than slightly baffled at the odd request. “Pardon? What about Moriarty? And the missile plans?”

I’ll call a car.  
-MH

“Unless you wish for Moriarty to join you, the hot water will help you relax. We’ll discuss everything after.” He looked up at John, daring him to argue.

The army doctor just shook his head and pushed himself up to his feet. God knew Sherlock didn’t usually share the hot water. “Alright then, yeah, that’ll be nice. I trust Mycroft will be here by time I’m done?”

Not fast enough.  
-SH

Sherlock didn’t respond, if he even heard John was anyone’s guess as he was once again focused on the phone in his hand.

John simply sighed and limped towards the bathroom, muttering under his breath about sociopathic roommates and bloody geniuses. The water was running before the phone ping’d again in Sherlock’s hand.

Just a moment then.  
-MH

Room clear.  
-SH

“You know, I would have just arrived at the door,” Mycroft said from the kitchen, already busy making tea since his brother certainly wouldn’t.

“Tedious. I would have had to let you in.”

Mycroft sighed and turned to face Sherlock once the water was set to boil. “What happened?”

“What do you know of a man named James Moriarty?”

The elder Holmes’ lips pursed tight in that way Sherlock immediately attributed to his brother’s discomfort.

“You’ve heard of him then?”

“I have heard the name… but how is he my sort of problem?”

Sherlock threw himself into his chair before he pulled his legs up to his chest and tapped his fingers rapidly on his knees. “As I thought… but how did he get his hands on it…”

“Would like to clue me in, Sherlock? Or was I called over here simply to watch you twitch like a rabbit in the spring?”

“James Moriarty is a muggle?”

The water whistled and Mycroft poured himself a cup of tea. “Yes, as far as I know he doesn’t even have a distant cousin in our world.”

“He may not have a cousin, but he certainly has someone.”

“To the point, brother,” Mycroft said as he sat in John’s chair.

“I met Mr. Moriarty today. He and his associates thought it wise to kidnap John and strap him with explosives, some form of game though I seem to be missing the joke. He wanted the missile plans, I brought them—oh, don’t give me that look. The plans are sitting safely at the bottom of a local pool. Your men can go fetch them at any time; Moriarty has no interest in them. His sights are set higher.”

Mycroft’s phone was already out as he sent the information to his assistant. Sherlock didn’t need to tell him the address, he had a feeling he knew what pool his brother meant.

“Mycroft, he knows about our world, he knows magic.”

“What happened?”

Sherlock leaned forward and showed his palm, the mark just as angry and red as when he first noticed it. “Moriarty was armed with a wand. During our encounter he disarmed me of my gun. It was sloppy, the wand refused to obey properly, and left its mark on me.”

Mycroft set his tea aside and took Sherlock’s hand in his, browed furrowed. “I don’t understand. He shouldn’t be able to do anything of the sort. Muggles don’t have magic, that’s their very nature.”

“Yes, but wands may carry residual magic from their proper owner. He was signaling someone, the wizard whose wand he carried perhaps?”

“This isn’t good.”

“Obviously.”

“Sherlock, if you haven’t read the Prophet recently, I suggest you do so,” Mycroft snapped. He took his tea and leaned back once more in an attempt to calm himself. “There is dark magic on the horizon and the Ministry is only barely retaining a sense of order against it. Between the Ministry and the British government I am stretched thin enough without worrying about a psychopathic muggle with a wizard under his thumb.”

Sherlock held his tongue for a solid minute, watching Mycroft and making a note to send Darwin out tonight for the paper, and perhaps with a letter for another Holmes.

“John needs to know.” The look Mycroft sent him was murderous. “I know the laws, Mycroft, but John needs to know. He saw magic. He has no idea what happened, but he knows something isn’t right. And if Jim’s threats are to be believed, this won’t be the last time he sees it. I would rather you not obliviate my closest associate at every turn while we try to stop him.”

“I pull enough strings to keep you out of the Ministry’s hands, Sherlock. An untrained wizard over the age of thirty running loose, they detest you. And now you want me to make them turn a blind eye to a muggle knowing the truth?”

“A muggle already knows the truth and he plans to use it against us. John is different, he will be of more use with his mind intact than if you start playing around with it. If you do, he might end up like you,” Sherlock said, repulsed by the very idea that John could be anyone but John.

Mycroft rubbed at his eyes. “I will see what I can do, Sherlock, I can’t promise you anymore than that. What more can you tell me about tonight?”

“Wand was approximately twelve inches, cedar or something remarkably similar. Take that to Olivander, he should be able to give us a name for our magic consultant.”

“Thank you.”

Down the hall, the water was turned off and the amount of time they suddenly had left to openly discuss their world was in countdown.

“And what should I tell John?”

“Nothing, not yet. Delay him however you must, let me speak with the Ministry first. I will send word as soon as I can.”

“You have one day.”

Mycroft’s face was tight, but he could say no more as John stepped into the room. His hair was wet, but the man looked a fair bit more relaxed than when Sherlock sent him off. “Thought I heard you,” he said as he made his way into the kitchen, making himself a cup of tea as well. “Any news on this Moriarty character?”

“We’ve had him, rather the actions under the name of Moriarty, under watch before,” Mycroft said. “His hands are in at least twelve terrorist organizations, but if we show even one card in our hand he shuts it all down and changes tactics. I’m sorry to hear what happened today, Doctor.”

John grunted and forced a cup of tea into Sherlock’s hands, muttering, “Take it, you git. It will do you some good.” He sat down at the edge of the couch and focused on Mycroft. “You could have avoided this?”

“No. Until today I wasn’t entirely sure Moriarty was one man.”

“Perhaps John could enlighten us,” Sherlock suggested. He peered over his teacup at John and met him with his usual intensity. “What can you tell us of who captured you?”

“Yes, anything you can provide us with is certainly more than we have now. I suspect, Moriarty may have underestimated you, John.”

“Right, don’t know what good I am. Though…” he glanced between the brothers, trying to put his words together. “The guy who took me, he definitely meant something to Moriarty. He was the only one he ever called by name.”

“Yes?” Sherlock nearly spilt his tea in his eagerness.

“Sebastian. He said Moriarty was his roommate when we spoke, I don’t know how true that was, bastard played me, but he didn’t seem like the typical grunt.”

The brothers glanced at one another, speaking without words in their own way that John would never for the life of him understand. “That mean something to you two?”

“Not yet.”

“Describe him.”

“Uh, blonde, just a bit shaggier than military standards, 6’0”-6’2” maybe.” John gestured to his face and added, “He had a scar, left side of his face, temple to chin, three lines, like an animal attack. Seemed to be comfortable with military issued weapons, more so than a man who simply steals them.”

“Nothing else?”

“No Sherlock,” John snapped, glaring daggers at his flat mate. “I was a little preoccupied with not upsetting the psychopath’s gunmen. Unlike you, they think I’m a little more replaceable.”

Silence stretched between them and Mycroft made little show of taking out his pocketwatch to check the time. “On that happy note, I must be leaving. Sherlock, I’ll be in touch.” There was a note of warning in his voice as he stood to leave, but Sherlock merely sipped his tea and said nothing in response to his brother. “I’ll let myself out. Good day.”

Once he was gone, John relocated to his proper seat with a mutter about Holmes broters. He set his cup down on the table and held out his hand. “How's your hand?”

“Fine.”

“Show me.”

Like a petulant child, Sherlock refused and continued to sip at his tea.

“I will pin you down if I must.”

“People really will talk then.”

John sighed. “So. I take it you’re not going to tell me anything? Of course not. You know,” he stood up, using the brief window of opportunity he had to look down at Sherlock. “I never asked to get dragged into this nonsense when I offered to pay half your rent. The least you could bloody well do is not leave me in the dark. I was ready to—no. Why would that mean anything to you?” He all but through his hands up, either in defeat or an attempt to not strangle Sherlock Holmes with his bare hands.

Sherlock slowly set his tea down as John stormed off to his room. His hands instead reached for the comforting wood and sinew of his violin. Now was a good time for melody or two, however which melodies remained to be seen. The door to John's room slammed and Sherlock took position, closing his eyes to Baker Street. He’d find out soon enough.


	6. Chapter Five

Apparation without a wand was a pain in the ass, but seeing as Jim thought it would be cute to actually abandon his sniper at the pool, Sebastian had little other choice. With a crack like thunder, Sebastian stumbled into the warehouse they had kept John in earlier. Deserted and unwarded against magic, it was the better option rather than the flat he shared with Jim across the city.

Sebastian walked through the dark halls, following a dimly lit path of flickering overheads to the loading dock Jim’s men typically parked in to avoid suspicion when they were loitering about. The whole complex of buildings was supposedly owned by a Belgian company that had pulled out of Britain, but had been unable to sell the buildings. Just another story Jim had fabricated for his own needs, but one no one would question too thoroughly. A dozen parked black cars and handcuffed war veterans being shuffled about however—that would draw attention, so inside the warehouse they went.

His bike was covered by an old tarp in the back corner where it always was, out of the way of careless mercenaries. The tarp was pulled back ungracefully and tossed into the corner where it belonged, away from his bike. Once his duffle was secured to the back, Sebastian fobbed open the loading dock doors and took off towards home where his boss was no doubt itching to bust him for being late, gloat about the events at the pool, and, no doubt, go on more about Sherlock bloody Holmes.

The flat he shared with Jim was more of a penthouse than anything else. Too posh for Sebastian, but Jim wouldn’t live in anything less and who was Sebastian to complain about a little extra luxury in his life? He wasn’t paying the damn bills and upkeep.

He left his bike in the parking garage below before taking the elevator nine floors up. To get into the suite itself, Sebastian had to all but bleed to prove his identity. He tapped in a key code, pressed his thumb into the scanner (fingerprint and heat signature, just in case someone wanted to go chopping it off to try and get in), and once all of that was green-lighted, he still had to actually get his key to work in the door.

“Would you look at that? Tiger finally found his way home, bet a dog would make better time.”

Sebastian shot a glare at the man lounging across the couch and slammed the door behind him. “Bastard.”

“You know the rules, Sebby.”

He rolled his eyes and locked up before tossing his keys in the dish by the door. Jim and his damn rules. No one was busting through their door anytime soon and if they were there was an armed soldier ready to deal with them. The door could wait another five seconds. “You’re damned lucky I needed to pick up my bike.”

“Or what?” Jim taunted. “Going to bite the hand that feeds you?”

A growl rumbled in Sebastian’s throat, but he knew when to pick his battles with Jim. They bickered, what flatmates didn’t? But there was a difference between bickering over liquor choice or kitchen crumbs and threatening lives—not that frequency with which Jim did both varied all that much come to think of it.

Sebastian muttered under his breath and hung up his coat and helmet in the hall closet, as per Jim’s other house rules. Sebastian had spent time in the military, he was fine with rules, but even soldiers had their limits. He set off towards his room and set down his rifle on his bed, he’d put it away later. Not in a gun case, they didn’t have one, just out of harm’s way along the back wall of his closet with the rest of his private guns, the ones he picked out himself and wasn’t just handed by Jim. Besides, there wasn’t really a place to lock up the guns in the flat; they had enough weapons hidden around anyway that the entire place was an armory in its own right.

The penthouse was as high tech as humanly possible, everything was top of the line and more secure than Gringotts. There might not be a dragon waiting for intruders, but if they did make it in alive, they were certainly not making it out that way. In Sebastian’s room however, the highest piece of technology, other than his guns and scopes, was his laptop. Jim had tried to insist on more, but Sebastian barely even used the laptop for anything other than work as it was. He’d spent so long without the crutch on technology that using it now just seemed like a waste.

Making his way back into the living room—state of the art with leather seats, glass coffee table, and an entertainment center Hollywood would envy—Sebastian looked down at the criminal mastermind still occupying the sofa. Jim had dressed down when he got home, he noted. The Westwood was likely hanging up once again, replaced by simple jeans and a tee that still probably cost more than most folk’s monthly salaries.

“Well? Get on with it,” Sebastian said. “I know you want to gloat already.”

Jim’s eyes were shut now, but the smile on his face was enough to get a chuckle from the sniper as he fell into the recliner beside him. His wand lay on the table amidst papers and notes on Sherlock Holmes and introductory spellwork and charms; Sebastian quickly snatched it up to roll the familiar wood between his fingers.

“It was different than before.”

“Yeah?”

“I could feel it, something alive and wild thrumming through the wand.” He paused and pushed out his bottom lip in a pout, the perfect impression of a spoiled kid not getting what he wanted. “It was violent, didn’t seem to like me very much.”

Jim let his left hand fall open and held it between them and Sebastian’s eyes travelled down from his face to his palm. The skin was scorched red where he’d gripped the wand, a mirror to the one Sherlock now bore, blistered and angry from contact and Sebastian couldn’t fathom how Jim wasn’t cursing up a storm just by moving it.

He cursed for the crazy fucker and sat forward, taking Jim’s hand in his own to get a better look. It looked worse than Sherlock’s and he couldn’t tell if it was the distance from the detective or the fact that Jim had cast the spell that caused that difference. “ _Adolferna,_ ” he murmured, waving his wand tip over the wound. A cool, blue glow washed over Jim’s hand, but the burn stubbornly remained.

“Leave it, Tiger,” Jim huffed, pulling his hand back before Sebastian tried again. Instead, he lay still, the only movement the rise and fall of his chest and the steady rubbing of his thumb over the tender skin. “I don’t want it gone just yet, a little reminder of my meeting with Sherlock.”

Sebastian snorted. Because crippling wounds made fine souvenirs, silly him for thinking otherwise. “Fine, have it your way.”

“You know I always do.” Jim lay silent for a moment longer before asking, “Why was it different this time?”

“Stand up.”

Jim glanced over at him before slowly doing so, stretching out like a cat who hadn’t moved in awhile and Sebastian supposed that was mostly true.

Once Jim was on his feet, Sebastian moved behind him, sliding his wand carefully into Jim’s hand. Despite the sniper’s care, Jim curled his fingers tightly around the hilt anyway. Sebastian shook his head and pressed himself to Jim, his back against his chest, leaving little space to differentiate between them. His hand slid down Jim’s arm, taking his wrist in hand to guide and control his movements, making the puppeteer into the puppet.

“Because when we practice, you become an extension of me,” he said into his ear. He gently nudged Jim’s wrist in one direction, a simple flick of rudimentary spellwork. “My magic still flows easily to the wand, and while it’s your hand and voice, it is my intent, my magic, that supports it.”

Jim’s pulse stuttered under his grip as the man hissed, “ _Lumos_.” The wand tip lit up and Sebastian could guess how Jim’s eyes looked then: lethal and just a bit dead as the light reflected in his darkness.

Just a fraction of his strength was enough to push Jim’s arm down to his side from this position. “ _Nox_ ,” Sebastian countered and the light vanished.

Jim turned, all the intensity he had shown the wand light now focused on the sniper, inches from his face. “I will not be your tool, Sebastian.”

“That’s not what—”

“‘You become an extension of me,’” he mocked, pulling his voice like Sebastian’s. “You belong to me, Moran. I own you.” Moriarty moved swiftly and there was a knife at his neck. “Not the other way around.”

Sebastian stilled beneath the blade, fingers itching for the wand still out of reach in Jim’s hand, ambidextrous bastard. “That’s not what I meant, boss.”

The knife pressed closer.

To say he was used to this sort of volatile reaction over the most inane thing was an understatement, but it didn’t mean sidestepping the landmines that came and went with Jim’s tidal sanity was any easier.

“It’s science, biology. We look alike, but we’re not. I have magic, I can use magic, you can’t. That’s it. You’re not supposed to be able to even touch it like you have. What you’ve already done? Casting without me? That’s… it’s unheard of.”

Meeting Jim’s gaze was never easy, less so when the man was on a warpath with a weapon to your soft parts, but Sebastian excelled where lesser men failed. It was part of why Jim found him so useful, aside from the whole wizard thing. “You’re not a tool, boss, but right now you need to rely on one of them if you want this all to work.”

The knife was off him and gone, letting him breathe easy for a moment before Jim shoved the wand against his chest, making him fumble to catch it.

“I know what I need, and as much as I detest saying it, I do need you. So do not push me, Sebastian.” Jim sat down again and yanked a spellbook into his lap. “I’m in no mood to break in another wizard.”

Sebastian pocketed his wand and ran a hand through his hair. That was a threat he’d heard before. He walked over to the kitchen and poured two glasses of scotch. The first he downed before refilling and a splash of soda was mixed with the second. He quietly set that one down in front of Jim before reclaiming the recliner with his in hand.

They sat in blissful silence. Sebastian sipped his scotch, making this one last simply because he did not want to have to get up and pour another, and played back the spellwork in the pool again while Jim studied the text. Even a wand so accustomed to magic that it might have stored traces of it shouldn’t have responded like that to a muggle. There was something else at play… but what, Sebastian hadn’t the foggiest.

Jim’s voice finally broke the silence with the million pound question. “Will I be able to cast again?”

“Maybe. That spell back there, that was a chance shot, any wizard worth his salt would have bet money against you.” The barest smirk could be seen on Jim’s face before Sebastian went on. “But it was either risk that or splatter Sherlock’s brain across the cement. He saw the bluff and he was ready to call it.”

“How?”

“Those sparks you shot off at Watson and the fact that we’re still relying on muggle manipulation methods.”

Jim looked up from the page, head tilted marginally in the form of a question.

“A dark wizard, like what Sherlock suspected you were—”

“A Death Eater.”

“Right.” Sometimes it was scary how quickly Jim had been able to emerge himself in the wizarding culture through nothing but books, scrolls, and Sebastian’s own stories. “If you were a Death Eater, you wouldn’t have tried to hide magic for as long as you did from the doctor. You would have controlled him from the start to watch Sherlock figure it out the hard way.”

“The Imperius Curse…”

“Exactly. It was a favorite of Death Eaters in the last war, all of the Unforgivables were.”

Jim looked thoughtful and leaned back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling, seeing numbers and theories and plans Sebastian would never know fully, no matter how much he influenced them. “Do you think we should have done that?” he asked with genuine curiosity.

“No, not yet.”

“Yet?”

 “Cursing the doctor would have drawn in more attention. The Dark Lord—”

“Sebastian,” Jim warned.

The sniper grit his teeth, “Voldemort… he’s the subject of wizard news again.”

That was something Jim couldn’t grasp, why Sebastian still struggled to say _his_ name. Jim could research all he wanted, but there was a difference when it came to reading about Voldemort and having lived through his first rise to power, especially as a muggleborn wizard. Jim didn’t have a lot to fear, so he expected the same out of Sebastian.

 _“What do tigers fear?”_ he would ask when Sebastian avoided the name and Sebastian knew the answer. They feared the muzzle of a gun, the edge of a blade, the metal teeth of a trap. The tiger feared death, not humans who set the trap and pulled the trigger. For all the bullshit people spewed that wild animals were more afraid of humans than humans were of them, Sebastian knew how wrong that was. They were wary, not afraid.

“They want to hush up anything that can mean his return,” he said, “and a muggle attack would hit the mark. Ministry would be all over it to make sure nothing reaches the Prophet. But Sherlock will want the Ministry to know about _this_ almost as much as we do.”

That answered pleased Jim. He set the book back down and reached, at last, for the drink Sebastian had poured him. “Good, very good,” he purred. He threw his head back and laughed suddenly, eyes bright with malice when he finally turned to Sebastian again. “Do you think Sherly has any idea about what’s coming?”

Sebastian gave him a crooked smile. “Doubtful, boss.”

“Then we move along as planned.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! You can follow me on Tumblr for more updates: [CrossroadProphet](http://crossroadprophet.tumblr.com/)


	7. Chapter Six

It was barely a day after the incident in the pool and Sherlock Holmes was alone.

Mrs. Hudson, the kindly old muggle land lady whom he apparently had a soft spot for and vice versa, had gone to one of her friends for tea and John was… Where was John?

Perhaps he should have been keeping better tabs on the military doctor considering what had just happened not 24 hours prior, but John was surprisingly good at leaving without Sherlock’s knowledge. And since he couldn’t hear the man tinkering about he could only assume he’d left at some point.

Though, his absence made it much easier to continue to hide magic from him for just awhile longer. After Sherlock had let the violin conduct his stormy mood the night before, he’d once again had to break into the small trunk in his room.

It was a good sized trunk for what little space it took up. A dark walnut exterior, simply carved with nothing but the Holmes crest, and expanded just slightly on the inside by Mycroft for Sherlock’s needs. It was the last of what connected him to his roots, other than the old owl who might as well as not have belonged to him for how often he saw the bird.

Inside were just a few coins from the family vault, some owl treats for when Darwin did appear, a handful of texts on magical theory that had fascinated him as a boy but ultimately paled beside science and logical reasoning, and an old photograph of mummy, Mycroft, Q, and himself as boys. To be honest, he hadn’t put the last there himself, but Q had insisted he keep something of the family with him. He looked at the picture now and tried to recall when it was taken or by whom and where his father had wandered off to if not in the picture. Mycroft was already in school, evident by the green and silver scarf bigger than Sherlock at the time, and home for the holidays by the snow falling merrily in the picture around them. It was well before the ‘Great Disgrace’ of the Holmes family, that much he was certain. He tucked it back inside, removed a coin, and shoved some of the treats in his pocket before it was all sealed up and tucked away.

He’d had to keep this particular box hidden well to prevent a stray drug bust from finding its contents. Once upon a time he’d tried hiding his addiction in the box, but Mycroft had enchanted the damn thing and had turned a precious vial of cocaine into an unforgiving, blaring horn that required Mycroft’s intervention to cease. He wasn’t sure who had been more livid then, himself, Mycroft, or Mrs. Hudson who had been trying to sleep at the time.

But the addictions were behind him and magic, apparently, was not.

Morning had come, the day had slipped by without Sherlock’s consent and magic had come along with it.

The Daily Prophet lay read across Sherlock’s sheets with faces of Dumbledore and Umbridge and Black and Potter in various manners of grins and grimaces staring up at his ceiling. The last time a Prophet had been in the flat was well before John’s presence and catching up on the last several years in just one paper was tedious, but easily doable and Sherlock found he was no happier being informed on the matters of his home than he was when he had been in the dark about it all. None of it seemed to even brush the much more pressing matters in Sherlock’s mind: who was James Moriarty and how did he know of magic?

He heard the clinking of teacups in the kitchen. Funny. He hadn’t heard the door or anyone come up the stairs. “John?” he called, for probably the fourth time today since he hadn’t moved from the couch since he’d received the paper at sunrise from an irritated owl.

“No.” Mycroft then. Wonderful. “Where is the doctor?”

Sherlock lazily waved a hand above the backrest of the couch for his brother to see. “Off somewhere. I believe he stormed out earlier muttering something about milk and damned Holmeses.”

“Yes, well, then I will assume you haven’t gone about breaking international magical law just yet.”

“Not yet.”

Mycroft made a noise between a disapproving snort and pained animal and swept over to join Sherlock once again in the living room. Two times in just as many days. Wasn’t he lucky? He glanced over out of the side of his eye, noted the circles beneath his brother’s eyes, the soot on his shoes, the teacup in his hand, the umbrella on his wrist, and the file under his arm. Without saying another word he held out his hand for the file.

His brother, of course, had to be uncooperative. He leaned back in Sherlock’s seat and made himself comfortable. “Give me a moment to explain.”

“No need. You’ve been at the Ministry, you wouldn’t have returned unless you had information and by the file under your arm I can assume you have the name of at least one of Moriarty’s men. The stamp on the corner, the ever infamous M, it’s our wizard, who is clearly breaking more laws than I, which is why you’ve also been working the right channels to make sure no one comes barging in when I reveal everything to John this evening.” He snapped his fingers impatiently at his brother. “File.”

“I see you’ve deduced everything then.”

“Obvious-”

“So then you’re aware that the wizard is the one who John encountered.”

Sherlock’s head snapped over to stare at Mycroft as he smugly sipped at his tea.

Once again, the facts rearranged themselves and Sherlock played Scrabble with the pieces. John’s scarred gunman was the wizard giving Moriarty… what exactly? Access to magic, certainly. But what else was there? More importantly, why?

“His name is Colonel Sebastian Moran,” Mycroft said as he finally untucked the folder from his arm. “Muggleborn. He finished schooling at Hogwarts before enlisting in Her Majesty’s Royal Army.”

Once the folder was within reach, Sherlock snatched it up and read through it faster than he’d have liked because the file was maddeningly short. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Moran dropped off of the grid, magical and muggle, some years ago, it seems. After he was dishonorably discharged for nearly killing a local political figure in cold blood, he simply vanished. Military had no explanation for it, they searched for him but there was no sign of a struggle, nothing to make it appear as though Moran did anything but pack up and leave on his own two feet, though no one saw that to be certain. Given the new enlightening revelation of his background, one can assume vanish is exactly what Moran did.”

Mycroft stirred at his tea, watching Sherlock in that infuriating way he did. John said the Holmes brothers shared a trait in unnerving others with their looks, but Mycroft was simply annoying about it.

If what Sherlock held in his hands was everything they had to go on Sebastian Moran, there was still not enough to put him in Moriarty’s hands. He had O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s of average intellect, decently proficient in Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts, but nothing at all interesting there, no reason for him to break magical law.

There were the transcripts from Saint Augustine’s, one of the handful of muggle covers for schools like Hogwarts that offered young witches and wizards interested in muggle lives a legitimate schooling history, that had been contacted by Sebastian nearly two years after his time at Hogwarts so that he could enlist. Sherlock could just imagine the look on the witch’s face who had to file that particular case. ‘Yes, I’d like to shoot things with muggle boom sticks, please.’ Not a request they saw frequently, he was certain.

As for his military career, that was a little more impressive. The man wasn’t career orientated, but he still climbed the ladders on skill alone, not ambition. Every promotion listed seemed almost accidental, but the man was bright and good at keeping his men alive and making sure the other side couldn’t say the same. The proof in that would be in the man’s sniping records. There couldn’t be more than a handful of men with scores like the one in Sherlock’s hands.

Dangerous with a gun and a wand. John hadn’t been exaggerating when he said the man was comfortable with weapons.

He folded everything back and dropped it on the coffee table. “But Moriarty.”

“Yes, I don’t know where he figures into this yet.”

Sherlock steepled his hands and shut his eyes to Mycroft and the obvious. His mind was his palace, every hall led to vast rooms of knowledge he could call on at will, and Moriarty had set himself up in Sherlock’s throne room, the center of the palace warped into a spider’s web, with his marksman wizard at his side. He had information, he had relocated everything he hadn’t already deleted on Jim from IT, and he still had no idea what to make of any of it.

He growled in frustration and turned over on the couch, back to his brother who sighed.

“Sherlock, when you’re done acting like a child would you kindly listen to me?” Mycroft rolled his eyes, tapping his umbrella against the flooring. “Sherlock.”

“What?” he snapped, turning over to glare daggers at the man who brought him more information he couldn’t yet put into place.

“I want you to be careful.” And when he got no response to that, Mycroft pressed further. “With John.”

“Well obviously.”

“You’re not telling an eleven year old magic is real, Sherlock, you’re telling a grown man who has seen warzones and surgeries, someone who has very probably wished for a magic cure and never found one. How do you suspect he’ll take what you’re so prepared to drop on his shoulders?”

Sherlock scoffed. John was different. John wasn’t as ordinary as Mycroft so wanted to paint him. John could put up with him for god’s sake; the man was extraordinary for that feat alone. He dealt with body parts in the fridge like clockwork now, he could certainly comprehend that there were things beyond his previous comprehension. He already knew he didn’t know half of what Sherlock did and accepted the man’s constantly spewed facts for what they were. Why would this be different?

“Sherlock, whatever you’re thinking right now, I am warning you. This matter is delicate and as far as the Ministry knows, it’s not even happening. Do not do something that will force my hand. I will obliviate him if I must.”

And as though Mycroft had stepped on the cat’s tail, Sherlock was up and spitting at Mycroft. “You will do no such thing. I will not have you getting your sticky fingers inside John’s mind,” wriggling his fingers in Mycroft’s face as he said it.

Mycroft stared evenly, never breaking his calm. “I will do what is best. You must do the same.”

 

xx

 

It was late in the evening before Sherlock thought it even remotely safe to approach John. It seemed after John had gone out to the store or the park or wherever it was that hadn’t been 221B, he was a bit more reasonable to deal with. He had pointedly avoided anything having to do with the pool or Moriarty in conversation, however.

Sherlock had attempted to lure John into accepting magic in perhaps the wrong way to begin with. He had left Moran’s file sitting casually on the coffee table, perfectly within reach of John’s chair. At several points he even caught John staring, possibly trying to identify the seal and wondering if Mycroft was perhaps that pompous to have a giant M stamped on all his things, but not once did he reach for the folder or even ask about it. He just went on reading the paper, the ordinary kind, and ignoring Sherlock’s screeching violin; he was agitated, it wasn’t even music at this point, just sounds and busy hands.

Direct approach then.

Rather abruptly, he set the violin aside and started pacing the room. It said a lot about John that he didn’t bother questioning either action, he simply accepted Sherlock for what he was. Surely, he could accept this too. And yet the words still evaded him, just out of the genius’s grasp, because how did one sensibly bring up magic to a muggle?

Despite spending all day on trying to figure that one out, no easy answer had revealed itself to that puzzle either.

Difficult and direct.

“John.”

“Hm?” He glanced up, pulling himself out whatever article he was reading.

He sat down across from John and rather intently stared him down in that way he couldn’t quite help when there were important facts he wanted. “What would you say if I told you magic was real?”

John stared at him for a long moment and, for a minute, Sherlock thought that perhaps this was the best route. And then John laughed. He continued to chuckle even as he folded up the paper, preparing himself for whatever Sherlock had to say, which was a small bonus. “I’d say that you are the last person I’d expect to tell me magicians do anything more than sleight of hand and parlor tricks. I’d bet you could do a half dozen of them yourself if there was a way they could be useful for a case and given your ability to pick Lestrade’s pocket for his badge, I’d say that’s more than a fair bet.”

A few more bonus points for John, then, because while it wasn’t helpful at the moment it was a good deduction on Sherlock’s learned ‘magic’ abilities.

“Not that sort of magic. I mean real fairytale magic.”

“Like Merlin?” John asked with a grin.

Sherlock was nothing but serious when he nodded. “Precisely like Merlin. What if that sort of magic was real?”

John blinked, apparently taken aback by Sherlock’s curiosity. “Is this for some case?”

“Yes and no. It has to do with what happened in the pool.” Sherlock gauged John’s reaction, interested and wary and several layers of confused. “What do you believe Moriarty did to my gun?”

He watched John’s eyes flicker to his hand. Sherlock had wrapped it himself last night, perhaps not as neat as John himself would have done it, but it covered the mark from sight. “I dunno,” he began, “Sherlock what are you getting at?”

“Magic, John. What you saw last night, that was magic.”

“I’d say you were pulling my leg right now, but you don’t normally understand how jokes work.” Nervous, attempting humor, possibly concerned for Sherlock’s mental state. Damn it all, why did he have to be difficult now?

“There is a world that exists alongside our own. One where science is frequently ignored because waving a stick and muttering ancient words can get you very far very quickly, if you do it right. What Moriarty did last night was very basic, very wrong magic, but it was magic all the same. Do you see why I didn’t want to tell you this last night?” He heard his voice go up a slight octave, possibly the closest he would get to begging John to grasp this.

“No,” John said simply. He shook his head and set the paper aside. “No. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’m not playing this little game.”

“I am not playing games with you.”

“You’re damn right you’re not playing games!” John rubbed a hand over his face. “Damn it, Sherlock. Can we just— Can you just explain to me what happened back there? I don’t want to be treated like a child with whatever mind games you’re playing at.”

“I am trying but you are not giving me a chance.” Sherlock sighed heavily and disappeared into his room for a moment before returning. When he did, he dropped the Daily Prophet on John’s lap. “Magic.”

John gave the paper a glance, noting the title for all of ten seconds before Dolores Umbridge waved her fat little fingers at John and he promptly shouted, tossing the paper away from him. “The hell is that?”

Sherlock picked it up again and straightened it out. “That is the Daily Prophet, a very real and very magic newspaper, John. How else do you care to explain the image before you?” He held it up and, on loop as all basic photos were, Umbridge waved again. “Very thin screens? Even you know technology is not quite that advanced.” And he folded the paper every which way to show that nothing shattered or snapped as the picture continued to wave and giggle.

As Sherlock dropped the paper on the table over the file, John stood up and assumed Sherlock’s usual frantic pacing, though it wasn’t boredom dogging at John’s heels.

“Jesus…” he whispered, rubbing his hand over his face. He risked glances in Sherlock’s direction and down to the paper and paced some more before repeating himself.

“Not quite,” Sherlock murmured with a half smile before John’s glare stopped him. He sighed and sat down again. Difficult. “Please,” he was even being polite for the man, “sit down. Allow me to explain.”

“I rather not listen to Sherlock bloody Holmes, Mr. Science of Deduction, tell me about this magic little world that apparently exists, thanks.”

“Science still exists,” he said with a little roll of his eyes. “Magic defies it, however. Any sense or logic that an ordinary person can find or deduce can be turned on its head by magic, which is precisely why the two are kept separate. There is a large magical population in London itself, but wizarding law keeps everything tucked away in neat little sections. Magic is kept away from mug—ordinary people and they can go on not knowing that some people are born very different from the rest of them.” If he thought John would read it, he would just get a copy of a History of Magic from Mycroft and force the man to do so. Sherlock read it when he was five, it wasn’t that difficult to digest.

“Magic.”

“Yes.”

“Magic is real.”

“That is what I just said.”

John laughed, bordering slightly on hysterical, as he went to make a cup of tea, no he was moving to the high cabinets. Needed something stronger than tea then. Ah, but the last of that had been finished off days ago and remained un-replaced since. Tea it was. Good. Getting drunk would not help matters.

“Magic is all about bloodline. There are very strong, very old families who are entirely magical. There are magical families who marry into ordinary families and still produce magical children. And there are ordinary families who are distantly related to someone who might have been magical and produce magical children anyway. For all the magical people in this world, there are thousands, millions more who are not. It’s a very small community spread out across a very large world, it’s incredibly easy to hide it all.”

“So what?” John asked, turning around as the water boiled. “These people pull rabbits out of their hats all day?”

“That’s a very bad joke.”

“I’m in a very bad mood.”

“Witches and wizards do a lot of things. Some of them work for the magical governments, some of them work on just keeping magic away from people who wouldn’t understand it. Magic can consist of summoning elements to altering states of being. Just about anything can be done with it within limitation: moving pictures in a newspaper, disarming a man of his gun.”

John’s eyes were wild, but Sherlock could hear the gears spinning, trying desperately to make sense of everything again. He didn’t particularly envy John’s mind right now, or ever, really, but that was beside the point.

“And Moriarty…”

“Is not a wizard, but he apparently has one working for him, which is why he had a wand.”

“A wand…”

“Yes, it’s how magic is channeled through the user.”

“But Moriarty isn’t…”

“No. The man who kidnapped you, however, is.”

“Jesus…”

Slow, but he was getting somewhere. And John hadn’t done anything terribly rash yet. There was a chance this could all go very well in the end, given he let John digest everything at some point in the evening.

“As you can see, I had my reasons for keeping quiet about this last night. You were in no state to handle this then. Frankly, I’m pleasantly surprised at how well you’re taking it now.” He let himself relax a bit even as John gave a nervous laugh in the kitchen.

“This is well to you, is it?”

“Well you haven’t thrown the boiling water in my face and called me a liar, so yes. You’re handling it very well.”

John actually stopped to stare at him then. “You thought I might do that?”

“No, but it remained a possibility.” Improbable, but possible.

“Why tell me now? Why not just let me go on oblivious? You’ve done it before.”

“Because avoiding the topic when I’m quite certain Moriarty will try something else involving magic would be counter-productive. Perhaps I should explain the rest after you process this much.”

John slowly nodded and poured his cup of tea with shaking hands. “Right. That… that makes sense.” The reasoning, not the magic. Still a step.

He reached over and reclaimed his violin and bow, running his fingers over the horsehair of the bow thoughtfully. Good. This was a good step. Mycroft had nothing to worry about over John. He was nothing if not remarkable for someone so pleasantly muggle. Sherlock didn’t look up when he added, “Also because my younger brother Q will be visiting soon so that I may discuss matters with him and it’s best you’re prepared for any eccentricities he and his lover may bring with them.”

A teacup shattered in the kitchen. Perhaps that was a less good step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you're at all curious about the rather abrupt ending here, it's because Chapter Five is meant to flow as seamlessly as possible into Docendo Discimus' [Chapter Four](http://archiveofourown.org/works/721634/chapters/1370315). So if, for whatever reason, you haven't already checked out Jen's story, please go and do so! 
> 
> Araneae Sanguine will still continue to move at its own pace, separate from Docendo Discimus, but I am writing it to run parallel with the existing story frame. There will be mentions from Sherlock's end about things that have happened so far in DD, so I apologize for spoilers but there's a quick fix to that: Read DD! Haha. I really do love that story and I'm so glad to see that I have a small following for AS as well. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading. Hopefully the wait won't be so long between the next few chapters.


	8. Chapter Seven

It was in the blood spray decorating the wall in front of him that Sebastian first understood what it might be like to have the Sight. He divined blood drops like he never could with tea leaves and could see clearly what was about to play out in the following hours at 221B Baker Street.

Holmes would most likely be feigning inanimacy on the couch in one of his infamous thinking positions. The muggle Watson would be trying to exist around him. No doubt it would still be early when the DI shows up at their doorstep, collar up against the London winds. John’s tea, not coffee because coffee was for late nights at the clinic and was not a proper way to start the day, would still be brewing when he shuffled over to the door to let him in because god knew Sherlock wasn’t going to be mobile until he had a reason.

“Out of your league again?” Sherlock would drawl before Lestrade even gets a word out after John welcomes him in.

The man would grunt and shove his hands in his pockets. “It’s a weird one, thought you’d want a look at it.”

“It’s not even nine,” John might mutter before turning the tea off, giving up illusions of normalcy he was undoubtedly trying to cling to.

“Call came in during the night. Gunfire at a flat on Perrymead Street reported by several neighbors.”

“Dull.”

“No sign of forced entry. The place was sealed from the inside. We had to cut the chain on the door to get in.”

Sherlock might shift on the couch, give some indication for Lestrade to go on without actually doing so.

“Point blank execution from a 9mm pistol. The vic was in her late fourties, so far as we can tell not even an ex with a grudge. She was quirky according to her neighbors, but a sweet woman who always paid her rent on time and never caused any trouble.”

“And now she’s the victim of a violent murder with no clues your worthless forensic team can pick out.”

The Inspector would sigh and give him the address. “We could use your help with this,” he would say and Sherlock would without a doubt take the case to ease his boredom.

Because things had been quiet for a month now and Sherlock was no doubt at the edge of sanity.

Sebastian’s eyes glanced down at the woman at his feet and then to the room around him. Sherlock would have no idea just how weird the case was going to be. How was he to suspect that the weirdest part about the murder wouldn’t be the murder itself? That there were other weird reasons for Sherlock Holmes to be involved in this particular case?

Elena Hitchens was not the first to meet her end in this particular manner, but she was the first so close to home for Sherlock Holmes.

Elena Hitchens was now the sixth witch to die at the end of Sebastian’s gun, tenth when he counted the wizards before her as well.

The room around him was littered with proof of what she was, not that any muggle inspector would ever see it for what it was. A shelf of old tomes with funny names, they’d think she was a fantasy buff. At best, they’d label her as a wiccan, that silly muggle term for muggles who tried to play with magic. They tried to call on some ‘goddess’ for power through nature and it was all a load of bull that he could remember some muggle study kids in Hogwarts laughing at over dinner. Whatever they saw, they wouldn’t understand.

But Sherlock would. He’d put the pieces straight. He’d get a whiff of the lacewing flies and bezoar in her kitchen and go running off to Mycroft if the elder Holmes didn’t somehow already know first.

Sherlock’s muggle cases weren’t supposed to trickle over into magic, that wasn’t how it worked. But it was all part of Moriarty’s game. And one way or another, Sherlock was going to play.

There was the hurried patter of footsteps above his head and Sebastian snapped out of his wandering thoughts quickly. With wand in hand and a crack of thunder, he vanished from the Perrymead flat and back into his own.

 

xx

 

He was already cleaning the blood off his gun by time Jim waltzed into the flat, fresh out of threatening some underlings and negotiating with warlords. A Prada jacket landed over the back of the couch before the Irishman followed, grinning right beside him. “Did she scream? She looked like a screamer.”

“Jumped a foot out of her own skin, but she didn’t scream. Her wand was across the room, nothing she could do.”

Jim chuckled and picked up the manila folders lying on the table, quickly flipping to Elena’s file. The picture of the grinning witch, awkwardly pushing her dark curls out of her face every few seconds, now bore a heavy dark X over her face just like all the others in that pile. “Who’s up next, tiger?”

Pointless question. Jim knew. Jim was the one who set the expiration dates over each of their heads in the first place.

“Jeffrey Bathory, American wizard currently living in Wales to study the aggression patterns of the Crup.”

By now Sebastian could recite the names and occupations of just about every witch and wizard on the list. Among them had been Avery Martell, a Spanish witch with the ambitions of creating a bestiary for magical creatures often mistaken for muggle beasts, William Clowe, a French pureblood who’d become a muggle vet because dogs and cats were less likely to poison or burn him, and Baldur McNara, a wizard who had been on a two year magic free sabbatical in Scotland.

Like any good hunter, Sebastian had stalked each of them before he struck, mapping out behavioral patterns and circling their weak points in red. Only twice had any of them attempted to fight him off. Clowe had nearly jinxed him before he pulled the trigger and watched Clowe’s curse get lost in the blood spilling out his lips and McNara had actually tackled him to the ground first.

Getting all their information had been a pain in the ass. Jim had the idea, but Sebastian had to do all the dirty work. Wizards were an international minority when it came down to it, and while the majority of them kept to wizarding circles and small, safe communities, there were always outliers. If Jim was waging war on magic, he was going to pick off the weakest links first. The loners, the trusting muggle supporters, they would be the easiest to remove and the first to go.

So long before John Watson was strapped with explosives, Sebastian had stepped back into the wizarding world for just a short time. Before anyone had any idea about what was to come, before his name was leaked to Mycroft and he was as wanted as Black, he started to put together a list.

Sebastian was good at getting people to talk. He didn’t even have to intimidate them like he normally did when he was gathering information for Jim. He just started to show interest in the right areas, smile at the right witches in Hogsmeade or Knockturn. Most of his information came from Knockturn actually. The sort of folk who frequented there were always happy to complain about blood-traitors and freaks to anyone who would listen. And if those wizards they complained about were suddenly found dead, well they’d been asking for it really. Sebastian doubted any of them would suddenly sympathize with his victims if and when the Ministry came knocking.

In the last month, Sebastian did more international apparating than he did the entire year he spent traveling after Hogwarts with his list his only map to guide him. The first murder had been the Spanish witch, but Sebastian barely took a break between marks, constantly on the job after the pool incident. He returned to London between a handful of kills, mostly when Jim needed someone else dead immediately, but that was it. Now things were changing and his only hunting grounds would be Sherlock Holmes’ very own back yard.

Elena Hitchens was left on Sherlock’s doorstep like a caught canary and Jim was ever confident that Sherlock would follow the feathers straight to the others who came before her. He would figure out another was coming his way before the trigger was pulled, but whether he could find a way to stop it in time remained to be seen.

How often were wizards living with muggles killed on a serial basis after all? It wasn’t as though even the Ministry had a protocol set up for an event like this, not when there were bigger threats on the rise again. Every victim locked within their homes, killed by a magical intruder, and shot dead by a muggle gun; not exactly the work of Death Eaters.

Jim thought the whole thing was brilliant, the irony to their deaths a warning for Sherlock. ‘Look at what I can do,’ Jim was saying with every bullet Sebastian left behind. ‘Your rules don’t matter to me.’

The only rules Jim played by were his own. Jim dictated and Sebastian took them down in blood. And if Sherlock could read the sniper’s shorthand then power to him, he just might last long enough to make it to the final act.

“ _I’ll burn you like the witch you are_.”

Sebastian looked up from his gun when the files were dumped back on the table. “Boss?”

He didn’t get a response. Instead he heard busy fingers tapping away at a mobile and Sebastian returned attention to his gun, knowing Jim wasn’t likely to talk until whatever he was dealing with was settled. Or until he made Sebastian go settle it.

Jim was always glued to his damn phone, ran half his empire off of it alone. In the last few weeks Sebastian wasn’t sure he’d seen Jim set it down for more than five minutes at a time though. They were under full attack from the Iceman now and Jim was not one to sit down and wait for the first bomb to strike. No, he was busy building his own and letting them fly off in six directions so others could move unseen.

Mycroft Holmes thought he could intimidate them. It was almost cute.

More distant strands of the empire’s web were being tugged and cut in an attempt to get to Moriarty, to figure out what was coming next. He knew he was up against a magical enemy, but at the same time Moriarty couldn’t be touched by Wizard law. Sure they could come after him, but Sebastian was good with his spellwork when it counted so they’d have to find them first.

The empire was the safest and most easily available route to work with to find Jim. It was large and factioned, but it was all held firmly together by just one individual. If the British government started to attack bits and pieces of it—a crime lord here, a smuggling ring there—then they were just protecting the people and defending law and order, right? Governments were supposed to do that sort of thing. No one had to know the Iceman was in the shadows orchestrating it all with other goals in mind.

Too bad for him he was underestimating Jim entirely.

He heard Jim laugh before the man fell into the seat beside him, jerking his arm with his head as his feet dangled over the side. Sebastian glanced over and raised a brow in question, setting the gun aside.

“Don’t have to worry about Kozar anymore.”

“Damn. I was actually looking forward to that one,” Sebastian huffed, vividly remembering the Russian drug lord who’d made the terrible mistake of addressing Sebastian as Moriarty the first time he was invited to meet the boss. Jim had smiled venomously and forgiven him of the mistake just that once, choosing instead to have Sebastian shoot one of his lackeys for Kozar’s insolence. Kozar’s coke was pure and he was worth more to them alive in the long run than dead with some useless underling trying to carry his name. He never made that mistake again to be sure, but meetings with him were hostile at best, even if he knew not to bite the hand that fed him. “What happened to the old fuck?”

“Iceman did me a favor.”

Sebastian smirked and leaned back, throwing his arm over the back of the chair so that Jim’s head fell against his thigh. “Did he?”

Once Jim figured out Mycroft was on his tail, he’d started to make a game out of his interference too. How many hits could Jim send Mycroft’s way before the man realized he was being played? Jim pulled the strings just right and certain insects tumbled out of the safety of the spider’s web. Crime lords not worth the lead it would take to kill them, smugglers who were starting to get greedy, players who had been replaced, anyone Jim wanted dead or could afford to lose were quickly finding themselves on Mycroft’s radar when they hadn’t been before.

He took the bait better than expected. Poor bastard probably had no idea Jim was letting them all get caught. They were distractions; just enough to keep Mycroft focused on the muggle crimes while Sebastian took aim and knocked one witch after another off of the map.

“According to his second, Kozar went into custody two hours ago. His entire London operation was shut down and Esmond has been scrambling to get the men to focus on cutting losses and covering tracks.”

“So there’s still a chance I can put him out myself if Holmes doesn’t first?”

Jim looked up at him with dark, hollow eyes and held his gaze for a steady minute before his lips finally curled in a smile. “We’ll see how it plays out, tiger.”

 

xx

 

The morning’s paper read “Drug Lord Found Dead in Holding Cell” with a lengthy pat on the back to the London narcotic’s team for putting a stop to a major drug distributor and a short bemoaning of how his sudden death would prevent them from pursuing other parts of his syndicate (Sebastian wondered which one of Mycroft’s men Jim had under his thumb to pull that one off). Everything, according to the morning post, was perfectly fine and dandy in London. Criminals were getting what was coming to them. Streets were safe.

There was no mention of Elena Hitchens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! For other updates or simple curiosity you can find my tumblr at [Crossroadprophet](http://crossroadprophet.tumblr.com/) as well!


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